


with your own hands

by overlying



Series: end to start [1]
Category: Akudama Drive (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bloodplay, Established Relationship, Knifeplay, M/M, Motorcycle Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:28:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28597728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overlying/pseuds/overlying
Summary: “You’re always so serious,” Cutthroat whines into his ear, hands sliding forward to wrap around his hips. Annoyingly, he presses his whole body against Courier’s, nuzzling his shoulder. “I missed you, you know!”(an au where courier’s eyes are red.)
Relationships: Courier/Cutthroat (Akudama Drive)
Series: end to start [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2100603
Comments: 9
Kudos: 28





	with your own hands

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea if there's an audience for this but i sure did have a lot of fun writing it

It’s the day of the execution.

if he didn’t have it burned into his memory already, the flashing red text on every building would have told him. Everywhere: _Cutthroat Public Execution,_ like they were just asking for trouble. 

He clicks his tongue, climbing onto his bike. The stupid authorities dragging this out would get what they deserved, that’s for sure.

Checking the time, there’s still ten more minutes until the security breach. Might as well time it exactly so he can ride right through the doors, so he takes a more roundabout way to the station. 

He doesn’t give a shit about being poetic, but going at breakneck speed, leaning into every curve and turn, has never felt like anything else. Flying through the streets, a neon blur, unstoppable, heart pounding—he feels _alive._ Nothing is as constant as the solid roar of his bike, dependent and impossible to betray. 

The complete opposite of Cutthroat, really. 

The time passes quickly, and right on schedule, he bursts through the front entrance just as the security robots shut down. Perfect. Driving inside is a different challenge, though anything else in his way is no match for the bike’s laser. 

And...the elevator’s supposed to be through here, except the arrows above it are already lit up. The doors open—ah, fuck, really? He didn’t have the time to shoot up a tank. Aiming the laser at the floor, the bike cuts a perfect circle, and he drives right down it.

Cables fly through the air and latch him to ceiling supports, then release, propelling him forward and neatly landing right on the stage. He winces a bit at the impact, and also the loud, surprised screams of the audience in the stands and whatever poor soul was supposed to drop the guillotine. 

In one smooth motion, he pulls out his gun and fires: first, in the arm of the guy at the blade; second, in the leg of who he assumes is the police chief. More yelling, some of the blood that Cutthroat likes so much, and then—a huge explosion from above, dust and debris flying everywhere.

Right. The tank. 

He carefully takes the knife out of his pocket and removes the covering on Cutthroat’s ear. 

“It’s me.”

He blinks, and the remnants of industrial-grade restraints lie strewn across the floor. 

“Oh, my guardian _angel,_ you really did save me!” 

His eyes are filled with absolute, wicked delight, and he rushes forward with his arms open.

Courier immediately dodges out of his grasp, grabbing his arm and dragging him onto the bike. “We don’t have time.” On cue, they swerve to the side to nearly dodge a missile. 

“You’re always so serious,” Cutthroat whines into his ear, hands sliding forward to wrap around his hips. Annoyingly, he presses his whole body against Courier’s, nuzzling his shoulder. “I missed you, you know!”

“Not my fault you got caught in the first place.” Going through the doors of the underground stadium was an option, but they’d just get stuck at the elevator. Maybe...going out the same way he came in, then. 

A sharp u-turn back to facing the stage, then forward at full speed, gaining as much momentum as possible—the cables latch onto the ceiling supports again, and the bike soars right back through the hole in the ceiling.

Cutthroat cheers excitedly. “Oh, that was so _fun!”_

It’s an easy shot the rest of the way, and soon enough, they’re back on the streets, city lights blurring past them, into the back alleyways and to the outskirts. 

If he grins to himself for a job well done, well, no one has to know.

He pulls into the alcove that he’s designated the garage—just an outcropping of concrete and metal beams that shield it well enough from the weather. He slides off, shaking off the hold on his hips. 

“You should really drive me around more often, _angel,”_ Cutthroat says, running his hand across the seat. “Oh! Were the lights always this pretty?”

“I modified them.”

“Just for me?” He bats his eyelashes, tilting his head. 

“They can change to any color, not just red.”

“You’re so sweet, my angel!” He gets off the bike to caress the lights in the front—yes, purposely changed out to be able to switch to a deep red. Just because sometimes a change was nice.

Cutthroat suddenly pauses, pats his own body. “My knife…”

“Right here,” Courier says, taking out the blade from earlier. 

“Oh!” He grabs it by the blade, accidentally-on-purpose slicing into his fingers, giggling. 

“Don’t bleed on my bike, idiot.” 

“Is that it?” Cutthroat flips the knife in the air and catches it by the handle this time, then pockets it.

“You threw the rest you had on you at people on the streets earlier. You’re not getting those back.”

“Awww…..” He pouts, then immediately perks up. “Hey, hey, we’ve never done it on your bike before, right?”

“What did I _just_ say about getting blood on my bike?”

“But I’ve been sitting doing nothing for _days,_ all I could do was imagine my angel in front of me, I’ve been so lonely….” 

“You can make it back to the house.” 

“But there’s no pretty red lights in there!”

Courier sighs very, very deeply. “You’re cleaning up, and if anything stains, I’ll kill you.”

“Really?” Cutthroat gasps. “That’s not fair, I wanna kill you too…”

“Shut up and get on.” 

Cutthroat straddles the seat backwards, leaning back into the tank. It can’t be comfortable, but that’s not Courier’s problem. He shoves himself onto the bike, too, and they’re pressed so close together it’s ridiculous.

“Are you sure about this?”

“So pretty.” Cutthroat sighs dreamily. “The lights really bring out your eyes.”

He scoffs and looks away. “You can’t even see them from there.”

“You’re hurt!” Cutthroat grasps his cheek and drags him closer. “Oh, oh….” 

Courier grits his teeth as Cutthroat digs his nail into the shallow graze on his cheek. He’s not even sure when or from what he got it, but to the boy underneath him, it’s an invitation. 

“Red,” Cutthroat breathes, “red, red, red, _red—”_

He forces Cutthroat’s hand away, trying his best not to wince. His pain tolerance isn’t low—just that Cutthroat’s is horrifyingly high. And to be honest, he’s not sure if the other would ever stop on his own. 

“Let me—let me—” Cutthroat pulls him closer, far enough that he has to grip the sides of the bike to avoid collapsing completely on top of him. Something wet brushes his cheek, and Cutthroat is lapping up the blood, slow and thorough, dipping his tongue into the cut.

Courier hisses and shudders, unintentionally grinding them together, and Cutthroat gives an appreciative moan in return, breath warm against his face. 

He takes the opportunity to feel for the knife, sliding it out before Cutthroat can stop him.

Cutthroat pulls away, pouting. “That’s not fair.”

“Yeah, well, I did save you, so the least you could do is hold still.” He starts from the collar, slicing the white fabric, down, down, down, and when he feels the body underneath him tense and jerk forward, he immediately withdraws the blade. 

Another dissatisfied whine. Courier clicks his tongue and begins cutting through the shirt again, each time pulling away before Cutthroat can stab himself. 

“You’re so, _ngh,_ unfair, you know, stop—”

Courier slides the blade right into his mouth, pressed flat to tongue, daring him to move. “Hold _still,”_ he repeats—the other’s eyes widen, but he removes it quickly enough that Cutthroat doesn’t just slice his tongue open right then and there.

He’s halfway through the shirt. It’s buttoned, so doing it this way is essentially pointless and wasteful, but. Indulgences. Cutthroat’s eyes are dangerously unfocused, his hands obediently down at his sides, and Courier just keeps playing with fire. 

He pries the fabric apart to expose bare skin—so utterly cold to the touch despite lying on the still somewhat warm bike. There are scars everywhere, a canvas of brush marks, and he’s not sure which are his doing and which aren’t. He presses the flat of the knife against ribs covered by too thin skin, unhealthily pale.

“Hey,” he says gently, cupping Cutthroat’s face. 

Cutthroat mouths, _Red._

And instead of digging the blade in, Courier slides it down between his thighs. 

If there’s one thing they can agree on, it’s that Cutthroat looks pretty when he bleeds, but in Courier’s opinion, he looks even better when he’s begging for it, half-delirious with want.

Cutthroat flinches back and moans, at the same time thrusting his hips up, and promptly slams the back of his head into the bike.

“Ow.” He breaks the no-hands rule by rubbing his head, then stares at his palm. “I’m not even bleeding.” 

Courier has to bite back a laugh. _Holy shit._ “The bike was your idea.”

Something falls to the ground with a sharp _clang._ Oh, the knife. Whatever. 

“Hey—!” 

“Just shut up,” he cuts him off, palming his dick (with his left hand, just as a small mercy). Cutthroat responds with a shiver and his arms back down at his sides. 

“Nngh—not—red enough,” he gasps out anyways, so Courier goes ahead and kisses him, sinking his teeth into his lips hard enough to draw blood. Cutthroat presses back hungrily, chasing the taste, all the while Courier strokes him through the fabric. It’s too little—the amount of blood, Courier’s touch, Cutthroat’s patience, and yet, he feels the exact moment Cutthroat comes, shaking and gasping into his mouth, staining the inside of his pants.

“Red, red, red,” he chants, staring straight into Courier’s eyes, all blissed out and docile for the whole span of five seconds before he realizes he still hasn’t gotten to really bleed yet. He frowns. “Knife. Red.”

“Yeah, okay,” Courier says, getting up to pick up the knife on the floor. (Having to restraddle the bike with a hard-on isn’t fun.) “Yeah, okay.”

The first cut goes just above his ribs, nice and thick, and Cutthroat literally moans in relief. Courier offers the blade to him, and he licks the blood off as beautifully as ever, eyes closed in bliss.

The wounds themselves aren’t what _really_ makes Courier’s blood rush, though. More like having this stupidly dangerous serial killer under him, pliant and liable to getting seriously injured. Holding all of that in the palm of his hand.

...Maybe he is prone to a little bloodlust, but it’s really nothing compared to what he’s facing. 

The blood pools into little rivers and into the white of the coat, staining it red, red, red—

“Red,” Cutthroat moans, “so pretty, so pretty, more, more, please—”

Courier sinks the knife in again, breaking that pretty patch of too pale skin, blooming into lovely crimson flowers as the body underneath him bleeds and bleeds and bleeds.

He loses track of the cuts. He loses track of where he ends and blood begins. The blade slips through his hand, slippery with so much red, and the sudden, sharp noise of it hitting the floor finally startles him enough back to awareness.

Cutthroat’s eyes are completely glazed over, heavy with blood loss, lips parted in a silent plea for _more._ It’s a mess—seven cuts, two still leaking profusely, everything white dyed almost completely red. 

“My angel,” Cutthroat whispers, hoarse. 

Courier pushes down the waistband of Cutthroat’s pants to get at his dick, blood slick against flesh, and he does the same for himself, pushing their cocks together and rutting forward. He wraps his left hand around both of them, almost disgusted at the easy slide of the blood but still ridiculously close. They come together, messy and wet, panting hard, covered in such beautiful, beautiful red.

“Fuck,” he groans, absentmindedly wiping his hand on Cutthroat’s thigh. “Fuck, you’re bleeding.”

Cutthroat hums, not quite there, eyelashes fluttering. 

He curses again under his breath and awkwardly slides off the bike to grab the knife, cutting off a not too badly stained portion of Cutthroat’s jacket to try to staunch the blood. One of these days he’ll accidentally stab through Cutthroat’s heart and the other won’t even care, probably would just pry the knife out and stab him back. 

His own legs are shaky, but he somehow manages to calmly tuck himself back in, slide his hands under Cutthroat’s body, and carry him inside the house to lay him in the bath while he goes to grab the first aid kit. By the time he comes back, Cutthroat’s eyelids are closed. A stray fleck of blood dots his cheek.

It takes a while for Courier to wash his hands. So much red caked into his nails, the dips in the metal.

He works through the motions on autopilot—antiseptic, healing balm, then bandages. He has to prop up Cutthroat’s body against the wall to do it. The other sleeps ever soundly, breathing steady and relaxed. 

He carries him to bed, wrapping him in another one of those long white coats, and settles in next to him. It’s really only meant for one person—but for some reason they’re exactly the same size, slotting perfectly together. And he’d...really missed that, the past few days without him.

He falls asleep quickly, despite the fact that Cutthroat’s body is literally sapping his own warmth, arms wrapped protectively around him. 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on twt [here](https://twitter.com/fataidawn)!


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